sound patrol 6-30-05

A bumpy journey, in the Fog

Writing about Gertrude Stein’s long and
difficult The Making of Americans,Â literary critic Richard Bridgman likened the
author’s technique to that of a novice driver:
“Periodically there are smooth stretches, but these are
interrupted by bumps, lurches, wild wrenchings of the wheel, and
sudden brakings. All the while the driver can be heard muttering
reminders and encouragements to herself, imprecations, and cries of
alarm.” So it is with the output of Andrew Broder, who
records as Fog, which is sometimes a band containing other
musicians and sometimes Broder’s alter ego.

Broder, a 26-year-old Minneapolis native,
started out as a hip-hop DJ, graffiti artist, and occasional music
journalist. His self-titled debut, which he released on his own
Dinkytown Records imprint in 2000, was reissued by the prestigious
indie label Ninja Tunes two years later; soon thereafter, the
British press went gaga over his distinctive blend of turntable
pyrotechnics, psycho-collage samples, and glitched-up folk.
Fog’s follow-up, 2003’s Ether
Teeth, showed the iconoclastic auteur
moving even further from his hip-hop roots and closer to a kind of sui generis
singer/songwriterism. Brutal, scary, and sometimes frustratingly
cryptic, Ether Teeth was like a homegrown Kid A, a gloomy exercise in experimental bricolage,
Teutonic beats, glacial piano riffs, and slacker self-deprecation
— it wasn’t always an easy ride, but it yielded many
pleasures for the patient passenger.

Fog’s newest full-length, 10th Avenue Freakout,Â is
by no means a concession to mainstream tastes, but regular rock
fans will probably find it more accessible than Broder’s
previous efforts. It contains actual oh-my-God songs, many of which
boast recognizable verses and choruses, and Broder’s voice,
an affecting amalgam of Mr. Rogers and Kermit the Frog, seems like
a vehicle for communication rather than just another element in his
cut-and-paste exorcisms. Although his lyrics still resemble
surrealistic shards more than they do linear narratives, they’re consistently
memorable and often quite funny, in a nightmarish way: “We
baptized our supersized babies in embalming fluid”
(“We’re Winning”); “The eye, a spoof of God/The
day, a crippled wolf/Were you born to be a sprinkler system in a
thunderstorm?” (“Hummer”); “Sentences beaten
senseless/By babies wearing sunglasses” (“The Poor
Fella”). Scattershot references to neon-pink werewolves, woolly
mammoths, and pteranodons contrast effectively with artless
observations, lines that come off like staticky fragments from a
late-night cell-phone conversation with your dysfunctional best friend:
“I’m rotten at keeping touch,” he admits with
touching matter-of-factness on “The Rabbit,” “but I
miss you very much.”

Embellished with clarinet, trumpet, cello,
and saxophone, 10th Avenue’s 13 tracks vacillate between effervescent
chamber-pop and rattletrap free jazz, folktronic freakouts and
luminous art songs, skittish beat pastiches and free-association
ramblings. “Song About a Wedding,” surely the most
beautiful song in Broder’s catalog, yokes Satielike piano
frills with minimalist bass, a wistful clarinet, and tinkly
glockenspiel as Broder’s double-tracked self-harmonies
complete the mood of wry romanticism: “Walking on
guilelessness’ sturdy stilts/Through guiltlessness’
beaming streets/I’m a tiny crab/In a tidal wave/I have no
complaints/And I too have you/To complain about it to.”
Somewhat weirder but no less lovely is “The Rabbit,” a
queasy concoction of acoustic guitar and rusty thumps that suddenly
erupts into a glorious falsetto chorus midway through —
it’s as if the members of E.L.O. were kidnapped by a cabal of
avant guerillas. The closing track, “The Hully Gully,”
begins with vinyl hiss and live drums, weaves in a dorky sample
from an old dance-instruction record, subsides briefly in a
dolorous organ wash, and then combusts in a full-out skronkfest of
bleating saxophones.

Like Stein, Broder is an erratic chauffeur,
but the bumps, lurches, and wrenchings along the way remind you how
far you’ve traveled, how singular your destination.